


A Roll in the Hay

by SheelaNaGig



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Cunnilingus, F/M, First Time, Frottage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-02 08:39:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2806313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheelaNaGig/pseuds/SheelaNaGig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blackwall and Female Trevelyan's first time. Sexy times to come <strike>heh</strike> in following chapters. Nuances of Sub!Blackwall.</p><p>*major spoilers in third chapter concerning Blackwall*</p><p>Sorry about the title, but everything else sounded all doom and gloom. I know i'm going to regret this title tomorrow, but nothing ventured I suppose...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Drink

_Where is he?_

Lady Inquisitor Nymeria Trevelyan attempted to act casual, slowly letting her gaze glide across the cluttered tableau of trestle tables and raucous guests. Midnight approached and the feast showed no signs of waning. The casks would have to run dry before the hard-working and harder carousing men and women of Skyhold showed any signs of tiring. Still, there was one face missing among the roisterous crowd. 

The celebrations commemorated the renovation of the imposing fortress’s throne room, which, unknown to the Inquisitor prior to unveiling, now doubled as the Dining Hall. “Well, we must put it somewhere,” Josie had stated in her typical amiable finesse which rung in fierce finality. “And it is the only room large enough to accommodate the parties of visiting dignitaries. All prospective allies and patrons, might I remind you.” 

The Inquisitor had opened her mouth to protest before realizing she’d only waste her words. But the bizarre modification no longer bothered her once she saw the cheer beaming from Varric’s eyes. Children and adults alike had gathered around his hearth, avidly listening to tales of Red Meredith and his fallen friend, the Champion of Kirkwall. Vivienne held a salon above the press of people, entertaining a few Orelsian ladies to tea and gossip. Solas had retired to his solar after a quick meal, bringing Cole with him to discuss another of the boy’s strange questions about humanity and the confusion of existence in general. Iron Bull and Dorian were ensconced at the end of a table laden with empty tankards. Occasionally they leaned into one another, their whispers chased by snickering every time a dignitary sauntering by their seats.

“Bull and the posh Vint are making up stories about these hoity-toity types,” Sera said from beside the Inquisitor, chewing on one of her raisin cookies with grueling effort. “I told ‘em I could scrounge up the actual mud easier than mixin’ dirt with water. But they said that just ruins the fun of it.”

“Oh,” Nymeria said, half-paying attention as she scanned the crowd once more.

“He’s in the stables,” Sera provided before taking another crunching bite of her cookie. “I mean, where else would old broody beard be? Told him there’s a party, yeah. That’d Josie only brings out the good piss for those poncy slag abouts who shit gold or whatever. I kept trying to get him to help me switch out the fancy casks for Cabot’s sour swill from the tavern, but he just moped and said he didn’t care what I did so long as I didn’t poison anyone.”

“How did you know I was looking for Warden Blackwall?” The Inquisitor asked, ensuring she schooled the slight mortification from her face.

“Who else would you be lookin’ for?” Sera nudged her in the ribs with her lithe elbow. “Don’t play coy. I’ve seen you two together. Checkin’ out each other’s _arssets_ , yeah? Kissin’ in the stables. Not like you two lovebirds make a secret of it. Though I hear he hasn’t put his boots beneath your bed yet.”

The stifling heat from the gathering coupled with the rich scent of the food enclosed around the Inquisitor from all angles, but it was the intimate talk making Nymeria dizzy. “I’m going to go get some fresh air,” she excused herself. 

“Ah,” Sera wiggled her eyebrows then winked. “Fresh air. Got it. Anyone comes pawin’ around for you, I’ll tell ’em you’re in the privy, or the library, or you fell into that weird mirror thing scary witch lady keeps in the guest quarters. Definitely not in the stables.” She winked again, keeping the eye closed this time to further prove her commitment to the ruse.

The intention of fresh air and a temporary escape from the din of the feast dissipated. Soon Nymeria’s feet carried her down the stone steps and towards the stables on the other side of the courtyard. The gaping mouth of the barn door threw an amber glow like a beacon in the shade of night. Shadows inside the rustic stead danced and wriggled as a small fire licked at its stone banking. She found the Grey Warden staring into the flames, his long shadow clinging to the heels of his bulky silhouette. Nymeria thought he hadn’t noticed her until he spoke.

“Want a drink? I have a hankering for company.” 

They walked from the stables. The ambient noises of night and the crackling of torches filled the silence. Blackwall had been prone to reticence, but the furrow in his brow cut deeper, the smudges hanging under his eyes told of sleepless nights.

“Not the feast,” he said, grabbing the sleeve of her tunic as she turned towards the main keep. “I was thinking of somewhere a little more cozy. Tavern?”

She smiled. “I’d never heard the tavern described as cozy, but alright.”

“Clearly you’ve never been to a tavern when a feast is on,” he said. “You’d think the sky was pissing down wine. Cabot’s will be dead. I’d wager my trousers on it.”

“I’m going to hold you to that wager, Warden,” she laughed, slipping her arm in his.

“Then you’d only notch down morale by winning. No one wants to see me bare-arsed, especially where they eat and drink.”

She arched an eyebrow at his vague hint. “Are you admitting you don’t wear smallclothes? I see you’ve carried a bit of the pastoral woodsman from the wilds after all.”

“A lady doesn’t ask and a gentleman never tells,” he smirked, brushing an errant lock of dark hair off his forehead.

The cursory humor soon faded. Blackwell got to keep his trousers as he’d been right about the tavern room’s desolation. Even Cabot made his presence scant, pouring them a round of ale before disappearing to the back room behind the bar. The quiet swelled between them once more, so hearty it became its own entity.

Nymeria swished the wheaty ale over her tongue, appraising the taste when he expelled a world-weary sigh.

“You seem troubled,” she said, “What’s on your mind?”

“It’s nothing.”

“You know I’m here for you,” she assured him, fighting the urge to lean over and brush the back of her knuckles over his cheek.

He talked honestly, that he thought about the ruins at Storm Coast, about how he felt invincible with her at his side. “Anything. That’s a hard word you know. Mean’s a lot.”

Her heart fluttered in her chest. Could this have been the root of the strange disquiet crawling between them? The Warden had made his feelings plain to her on the ramparts. But it wasn’t until she found him in her room one night did he embrace her affection for him. Heat surged through her belly, remembering his mouth against hers, her back pressed against the bannister, kissing him as if his breath sustained her. Yet, that one final act of physical intimacy eluded them. Blackwall had stepped back, drew her palm against his lips, and bid her sweet dreams before leaving.

Dazed, Nymeria had stood there for some time, flushed and quivering like a raw nerve. He’d stoked her lust until it burned wild, only to leave her with a chaste kiss and an amiable parting. Even now as she sat beside him, gossamer threads of attraction bound them tighter, kept encouraging her hand to brush his thigh or to run fingers through his hair.

The call of him was too loud to go another night unheeded.

“ _You_ mean a lot,” she said, pushing her tankard away. “Let’s get out of here.”

Such an innocent phrase, but the deeper meaning conveyed with a slight smile and an arch of her eyebrow. The warrior tilted his head, mulling over the implications before quaffing his ale. 

“Alright,” he affirmed with a peculiar nod, like a surrender. “Let’s go somewhere we can be alone.”

The moment Blackwall opened the tavern door, a dignitary from Orlais staggered through and into his chest. The strong scent of wine and and a nuance of vomit wafted off the vibrantly clad Orlesian. Blackwall caught the man by the doublet, spinning him in place shoving him away from the tavern with a gentle push.

"Think you've had enough, messere. The guest quarters are that way."

The man grumbled something in Orlesian and Blackwall retorted in the same fluent manner before laughing it off.

"What did he say?" Nymeria watched the intoxicated man waver off into the night.

The Warden smiled. "That a man in the company of a beautiful woman has no right to discourage a drunkard. Course, I cleaned the rhetoric up a fair amount to save the vulgarity from my lady's ears."

“Wished I’d kept you at my side at Halamshiral. Everyone kept peeking over and whispering in Orlesian before they realized I couldn’t understand what was said. Then they just outright talked about me.”

He chuckled and took her arm in his, giving her hand a reassuring pat. “I’ll understand them, but it’s still frivolous dribble as far as I’m concerned. Now, let them fight by your side and then see what they have to say.”

“How could I have been versed in all manner of etiquette, yet feel so sorely out of place at the Winter Ball? Andraste’s arse, fighting those Venatori in the gardens was a welcome respite. At least their daggers are out in the open instead of hiding behind a porcelain mask.”

“Viper’s nests are hardly havens for those who refuse to indulge the game of masks,” he spoke and a bitterness limned his words. “Congratulations. That means you’re a decent human being. Beyond decent by my accounts.”

Blackwall had begun to escort her towards the keep before she stopped him. “Not my quarters,” Nymeria urged. “Afraid I’ve shirked my ‘Figurehead of the Inquisition’ duty tonight. We’d never sneak past all the guests without someone noticing. Or we’d also hazard Dorian and Bull leading a cheer as I bring you to my door.”

"Ah," he said, understanding. "Dorian already spits gossip like a broken dam. No need to add to his fodder. Erm, suppose that leaves my quarters then?"

The last embers of the fire smoldered by the time they arrived back at the stables. He threw another handful of sand on the smoking ash and recommended they go up to the loft. "Bit more privacy,” Blackwall said, salacious prospect etched into every syllable. A giddy heat flared between Nymeria's thighs.

He led her up the creaky steps over towards a lone window. She’d never been up here before. A pile of furs strewn across a cloth-bundled straw mattress were the only few furnishings. Of course this was where he slept. The rugged man would probably toss and turn, feeling ensnared upon a featherbed under lush bed linens.

Soft illumination of a newly lit lantern cast light from behind her. Nymeria turned, finding herself pressed against his chest and captured in a his strong embrace. The bitter chill on the air dashed away, replaced by the smell of cedar and male musk as he kissed her. His arms banded around her waist as he guided her backwards towards his bed.

As quickly as the flare of lust came, his mouth tore away from hers. Just like that, the impatient virility reined back as he searched her face.

“You need to know that I’m not worthy of you.” He drew his Warden constable badge from his coat pocket, clutching the medallion like a drowning man to a piece of flotsam. “There's no future for us with me as a Warden.” 

Nymeria traced her fingers over his lush lips. “You don’t know tomorrow any better than I do. One moment at a time.

“Then for now, let there be nothing else. No one else. Just you and me,” he said before his passion blithely over-ruled the doomed intricacies of their situation.

Another few insistent steps and the bed butted against her calves. They toppled down, their crash padded by the hay beneath. The partial weight of his body bore on her as he ran kisses along her jaw and down her throat. Succumbing to her own impatience, Nymeria clutched his hair, drawing him upwards to plumb her tongue into his mouth. She savored the wheat taste of the ale better on his tongue than sloshing in her tankard. A woman could get drunk on a man such as Blackwall.

"May I undress you, my lady?" he asked in a husky voice, the hard bulge of his groin prodding at the clothed cradle of heat between her spread legs.

Foggy senses cleared and her chest tightened. Did he just ask her permission? Had any other man _ever_ asked her permission rather than pull off her clothes in ferocious abandon? A thread of power wove through her nerves and she kind of liked it.


	2. A Feast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *plays Hozier's _Take Me to Church_ *
> 
> The Inquisitor and her Grey Warden share their scars... also cunnilingus.

Disregarding his question out of sheer lust, her hands raced to his belt buckle but he evaded them. "That will come later. Right now I need you bare. Allow me admire your beauty, love."

Permission came with a silent nod and his gloved fingers set upon the fastenings of her tunic, undressing her with the deftness of impatient yearning. Now she felt the night's chill whisper over every bared inch of flesh, only to be chased away by the furnace heat radiating off Blackwall's body. Despite the warmth of the clothed body pressed above her, Nymeria's nipple puckered to taut peaks. Goose flesh spilled up her thighs as he removed her breeches and slid her small clothes off her ankles, baring her body to him without a tatter of cover. The potent scent of her wafted from where it slicked between her thighs, the desirous residue cooling in the night air.

Nymeria denied the self-conscious urge to fold her arms over her chest and stomach. Not to cover her breasts or the thatch of hair between her thighs out of modesty, but to conceal the jagged scars she earned from being a step too slow in battle. One look at the reverence burning in his eyes, and the perturbed reactions of past lovers nearly vanished from memory. Every woman should have a man look at her as Blackwell did, worshipping her with a gaze alone, as if he knelt before Andraste herself 

“So this is what you hide under all that armor?” he said, tracing his fingers over the contours of her flank.

“Not well enough, apparently.” Nymeria lifted his idling hand away from a particularly gruesome swatch of scarring below her breast that rendered the flesh pockmarked and pink.

“Did you kill the people who gave these to you?” he asked and she heard a current of fury in his voice, inferring the root of her diffidence.

She bit her bottom lip and nodded.

“Then these are badges of survival and merits of revenge. Anyone who’d look at you and find repulsion is not worthy of your time, let alone your bower. You’re beautiful, Nym.”

Before she could spit out an incredulous response, Blackwall stretched the length of his body over hers. With every shift, the rough fabric of his quilted jacket glided over her breasts with an exquisite friction, stoking the heat in her belly to lick a corresponding fire in her taut nipples. Nymeria writhed beneath his bulky frame, reveling in the questing touch of his gloved fingers as he explored her. A nagging voice at the back of her mind told her she should feel vulnerable, but the hot mouth and scraping teeth on her throat silenced her apprehension like a slammed door. 

"Just like that," she whimpered, thrusting her body, purposefully stroking her nipples along the quilted fabric of his coat. "That feels divine."

A proud rumble of a chuckle muffled into her throat. "And just think a moment ago you were trying to get me out of my breeches. My lady is a wanton woman. So fucking beautiful and responsive."

She giggled. "That sounds filthy coming from your mouth. Half-compliment, half-scandal"

He pulled away just enough to flash her a mischievous smirk. “Aye, well pleasure is fucking filthy business. I'll not cant at you like some simpering poet. You are fucking beautiful, my lady. The way your body trembles beneath mine. The musky scent of your quim smells finer than any flower and will quench my thirst better than any wine.” He pinched her nipple between his thumb and index finger, teasing the nubs with delicious expertise.

Her bare toes drifted over the rough fabric of his trousers stretched across power thighs. Again, her eager hands played at his belt buckle. The clothes could stay on, she decided, but she needed to free the sizable ridge jabbing her hip bone, to feel its warmth in her hands before taking him inside her. Yet her intention met with his denial once more. Blackwall’s hands slid from Nymeria’s breasts, following the line of her arms to pin her wrists on either side of her head. 

“Not yet. Let me enjoy you, my lady,” he whispered against her cheek. “Maker’s balls, do you know how I’ve dreamed of dragging my tongue across every luscious slope of your body? ”

“Every slope?” she said, her words tangling as he kneaded the supple inside of her thighs.

Blackwall’s mouth ambled down her sternum, diverting to suck on the underside of her aching breast. Slowly, he fluttered kisses and bites over his ribcage, mindful to kiss each scar his lips brushed across. Every motion came calculated, hinting at the ferocity he reined back and drove her mad in an agonizing arousal. His mouth idled atop the scant expanse of smooth skin between her navel and nether curls. So dangerously close to her quim that Nymeria cried out in frustration. She swore she felt him smirking.

Numerous crude demands clawed at the back of her teeth, all decimated when his hands slid beneath her knees and spread her legs as easy as one opens a book. Though instead of dipping his tongue between her dewy folds, Blackwall tilted her pelvis up off the mattress and lightly bit the curve of her arse. 

“Every slope,” he said like a promise and nipped her other cheek. 

She wrested handfuls of the furs beneath her. The man dangled her over a precipice of raw want and she wasn’t sure if she’d rather be dropped or pulled back on solid ground. Abdominal muscles burned as he practically folded her in on herself, mapping the curves of her bum with his lips and teeth.

“So beautiful,” he murmured into the crease between her thigh and groin, nuzzling his nose along the groove of flesh. His mouth hovered over her nether lips, so close she felt his hot breath teasing her delicate, hypersensitive flesh. “Look at me, Nym.”

She hadn’t even realized she closed her eyes until he spoke. Gloved fingers dug into her thighs, further wresting her from the foggy, dazed lust which heightened her senses but numbed her awareness. The man had turned her into a whimpering, broken woman who craved only his touch, and he hadn’t even taken his boots off or touched her quim yet.

“Nym, look at me. I want you to watch,” he requested a bit more sternly. 

Nymeria peered over her breasts and found his fathomless blue gaze staring back at her. The warrior clasped his hands around her knees, splaying them wider until tendons burned, meeting their limit. In excruciating anticipation, Blackwall’s mouth enclosed over her swollen clit, the flat of his tongue dragging over the pearl with the barest touch, the hairs of his beard prickling her buttocks. The ache somehow both worsened and quelled by his oral attentions. All while those piercing eyes observed her in predatory anticipation.

“Do you know how many times I thought about this? About your legs wrapped around my head as I licked your quim to the Fade and back.” His fingers clenched tighter on her flesh. “Andraste’s tits, you taste magnificent.”

The salacious words entered her ear and shot straight into her core like a molten spike. “Why did you wait?” she asked in a voice as brittle as the crunching hay stalks beneath her hips. “You could have had me. What I told you in Haven, about coming to my quarters… that wasn’t a jest.” 

“Because I am a bloody fool, but there’s no changing that,” Blackwall said before sliding his tongue into her tight channel, lapping her nectar from its font.

The entire time his mouth delved into her nether curls, she waited, expecting him pull away and bare himself, to sheath his length inside her voracious heat and pummel away , taking his pleasure like any other man had done before. But each fervent lick seemed to inspire him to dwell in that area. Blackwall peered up over her belly, observing her quavering reaction and fragile whimpering. Distantly, she heard a voice which sounded like hers pleading for his prick, begging him to make her come.

The sensation evolved past the mouth on her or the possessive grip on her hips which melted away the cold. The delicate caress of his nap-length hair spilled over her thighs. The gloved fingers slid beneath her thighs, tilting her pelvis upwards and into his mouth. He redoubled his ministrations with fervor this time. Each lick and suck on the sensitive pearl careened her towards an intangible verge borne only in blood.

Every single nerve flared, sharpening to searing points before melting, flooding exquisite bliss all the way to her toes as she crested. Her fingers twisted in his hair and she bucked against Blackwall’s mouth, crying all sorts of vulgar compliments which earned a throaty grunt from the man between her legs.

As Nymeria lay trembling, a particularly strong gust scoured over the roof, drawing her eyes up towards the vaulting darkness congealing above her head. As if all the world were darkness and his lone lantern kept the curtain at bay. Just the two of them in this moment in their own slice of infinity. She closed her eyes to the gloom, taking comfort in the dull flashes of stars behind her eyelids and the slow hammering of her heartbeat, feeling her body sink back to earth.

When she opened her eyes, she found Blackwall staring down at her, his body propped above hers like a shelter. Black pupils nearly swallowed the blue irises which smoldered in an alloy of hunger, and restraint, and a touch of something despondent as well. The lantern light sparkled in the beads of her juices now festooned in his thick beard. Tendrils of dark hair dangled from his temples, the soft tresses kissing her cheeks in teasing licks. 

He wore a smug little smirk. "How fairs my lady this evening?"

"Shut it," she said with sly smile. Nymeria reached up, pulling him down to maul his mouth against hers. The tangy flavor of her nectar seethed her blood back from where it had cooled, calmed after her orgasm. That was when Nymeria realized she'd never have her fill of this man. It would never be enough until his body joined with hers.

Reading her silent wishes, Blackwall untangled himself from her arms. His teeth sunk into the fingertip of his glove and pulled it off his hand. The strangely animalistic gesture roiled the heat anew in her belly. The Grey Warden did the same with the other glove before tossing it aside. As he slowly bared his body, he seemingly snipped the final strings of his tight-woven composure. An errant lock of dark hair fell over his face, swaying beside his frost blue eye as he tugged off his boots.

He shed his bulky coat and undershirt. The trim cut of a young man's body had blunted in middle age. Though not to say he had let himself go, but he carried that certain heaviness which awaited all men once the meals began to cling to their stomachs instead of melt off. His body reminded her of Skyhold before the renovations, of rough hewn stone, still formidable and hearty but lacking the clean chisel of years past.

And like Skyhold, his body showed the mars of battle. A silver scar cutting across his chest from a glancing sword point, a puckering of skin on his shoulder which boasted an arrow wound. A particularly nasty patch of scarring knit across his left pectoral, as if the skin had been burnt or cut away.

“See, my lady? I carry my share badges as well.” He grinned down at. 

The calloused skin of his palms glided over her body, burning like a sensuous brand. Nymeria both feared and desired that he’d explore her anew. Blackwall hunched over her, savoring the skin-to-skin contact previously denied to him by his gloves. With a small snarl, his hands abandoned her body and he tugged at his belt.

 

The Inquisitor could have hit him for rising and pacing away from her. The muscles bunched in his back, telling that his hands were freeing himself from the confines of his breeches. Blackwall moved gracefully for a man of his thick build. The same finesse which carried him to combat rhythm now granted him the ethereal purpose of a bard. All thoughts of battle prowess dissipated as the Warden pushed his trousers down his hips, letting them fall in a heap at his ankles.

He stoned himself in place, as if afraid to turn and face her. Nymeria wondered if he had some scar or disfigurement from an old injury, that he felt the same self-scrutiny as she did. One large scar sliced down his back and crept across his buttock. Could that be a portent to something worse waiting in front his pelvis?

The Inquisitor rose from the bed and padded towards him, determined to offer the same unconditional acceptance he’d shown her. Blackwall gave a short hiss of pleasure as her fingers traveled down the prominent mar on his back. All the way down to run her exploring touch across his strong buttocks.

Without prompt, Nymeria slid her hands to his front, appraising the coarse chest hair bristling her fingers as she journeyed further down. Over the shallow, hard abs until she halted over the velvet heat of his ardent erection.

"Oh," she gasped against his back, unable to close her fingers around her discovery. "Oh my."


	3. A Joining, A Farewell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roll, roll, roll in ze hay. ~~I still hate this title~~
> 
> *Blackwall Spoilers*
> 
> Some angst and a quasi-graphic depiction of death crept in towards the end, so I'm altering the warning for the whole story.
> 
> Thanks for reading and dealing with my verbose writing!

“Oh,” seemed to be the mantra of the moment. Her lips pursed, hollow as words fled her. Nymeria paced around him, flitting her gaze over the planes of his brawny body, attempting to avoid locking onto the monster between his legs.

“You don’t…we don’t have to do this if my size worries you,” he offered and remained stoned in place like the most well-hung statue she’d ever seen. 

“I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I’m no spring maiden, Blackwall,” she assured him as well as reassured herself. As far as previous lovers were concerned, she’d had longer, but the Warden easily beat all of them in girth.

“Figured that when you propositioned me in Haven.” He smirked, trying to dispel his apprehension with humor. “Also know you well enough that I can tell you’re playing diplomat.”

Nym leaned back, cocking her hip out and folding her arms beneath her breast. “Are you truly claiming that if I put my clothes on and left, you’d be find my retreat agreeable?”

A cloud darkened over his eyes. “Wouldn’t be the first time a woman’s done it. I’ll not chase after you out of some false claim of entitlement, if that’s what worries you.”

And for the first time in the short history they’ve known one another, the Warden dipped his shield and offered her a peek at his vulnerability. Had Blackwall gone into this expecting her imminent rejection? Closing the distance between them, Nymeria caressed his cheek before he planted a chaste kiss in her palm. 

“If I can see past your thorny demeanor,” she started and drifted her hand down his body to take him in her fist, “than it will take more than you being hung like a gruffalo to scare me off, Grey Warden.”

“Woman, you stole my very soul. The second I saw you standing next to my cabin, I knew I had to have you” he murmured as her hand worked over the thin, smooth skin stretched tight over his cockstand. 

Nymeria smiled and arched her eyebrow “Wasn’t I wearing a soldier’s helmet and light armor when you first saw me?”

“Aye, but watching you face those bandits with the brazen fortitude that even some chevaliers lack…” he said wondrously. “You could have left, hid yourself, or merely just stayed out of it. That’s what most people would do. But you stayed and fought, put your life in jeopardy for men who were no better than strangers. That was when I knew you’d be beautiful no matter what laid under the helmet and armor. Though, can’t say I’m not pleasantly surprised.”

The attraction surpassed physical longing or the blood urging to join their flesh until one or both of them exploded in release. The intangible tether strung deeper, gouging into their souls. When Blackwall tugged the chains of their bond, she drew closer. And something about such an inexplicably deep connection simultaneously frightened and freed her.

Before she registered his movement, Blackwall gathered her in his arms again, clutching her bare body against his. As wonderful as her nipples dragging over his coat had been, she melted as the puckered nubs bristled his chest hair. Naked heat played against each other, burning hotter knowing their flames would merge and threaten to scorch them until nothing remained. Again, he steered her back towards the bed, only this time he swept her up and gently laid her upon the mattress.

Straw snapped beneath his flank as he laid beside her supine form. Calloused fingers enclosed on her nipple, pinching it before wandering down her ribs and belly to twirl a lock of her nether hair around his finger.

"You tease me, Warden,” she gritted out as his finger lingered over her slit.

"I do no such thing, my lady. I'm merely savoring preparing you for me. Unless you’d rather I plunder you like some callow bastard without concern for your comfort?”

A single thick finger slipped past her petals, joined by a second. The two digits plunged inside her, loosened the tight muscles until a third finger also penetrated her tight heat. The fullness drove her own fingers to latch around his wrist, leaving tiny crescent bites of nail. Just as she grew to tolerate to the digits, Blackwall withdrew them, leaving her wanting in spite of the subtle soreness.

When he climbed back atop her, the embarrassing tremble of a hopeless virgin quaked through her body. Soft lips brushed over hers in soothing endearment. “I meant what I said, Nym. You’ll always have my heart. No matter where life takes us.” His forehead touched hers, bringing those ice chip eyes with their lambent heat only breath away. “You are singularly the most fascinating person, woman or man, whom I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing. I only wish we could have met sooner.”

The statement shook with an odd sadness. Nymeria opened her mouth, but he silenced her with a shattering kiss. The blunt head parted her folds and she held her breath. When was the the last time she laid with a man? Months before the Conclave probably, and if she wasn’t sure, then it must not have been that spectacular to begin with. So when the large cockhead impaled her, the disused opening stretched in a pleasant burn, like limbering her muscles after waking in the morning. His pelvis rocked against hers in an agonizingly slow tempo. Each short thrust brought him deeper in her body to a chorus of her pained hisses and pleasured whimpers. She reached down to where there bodies coupled, gasping in wonder at how wide he stretched her.

“Tight fit,” he uttered against her mouth. “So fucking tight.”

Blackwall allowed on a few precious seconds for her muscles to accept him. Each measured thrust surged inside her grasping quim before dragging out and rushing anew. Murmurs of discomfort gradually relented to cries of pleasure, her body molding around him like a scabbard cradling a sword.

"I could do this for hours," he whispered in her ear, wracking a shiver down her neck. "I could lay here and take you, make you mine, bind you to me so that no other man could ever hope to provide the same caliber of pleasure. My lady, I would drive you mad. Lift you to the stars and drag you down to earth over and over. But tonight, let me have this, my lady. Let me take my pleasure in you."

She whimpered something in broken syllables. It might have been affirmation could she focus her senses towards coherent speech. Hands splayed her wider, granting access to thrust into his hilt. His hips plowed on, harder, harsher, giving her every inch in his unrelenting force. His pelvis slammed her thighs, jarring her entire body, rough enough to bruise. But Nymeria called for no mercy or reprieve. The Inquisitor clawed his flesh in ecstasy, rendering tracks of vicious red welts across his buttocks as she spurred him on even harder.

"One more," he rasped against her throat, pinning her wrists beside her head. "Give me one more, my lady. I want to feel your sweet cunt crushing my prick as if the entire world were baring down upon me."

Each devastating rock of his hips propelled her over the precipice, dropping her into lust-crazed delirium where only they existed. The only two people in the world. The movement inside her became her new Anchor, weltering her in the joys of existence rather than the looming shadow of death. That deep-seated connection roared to life in vibrant flash, soaking into her body as she bore down on him with all her being. Dimly, Nymeria was aware of the gush of fluids rushing out of her and soaking her thighs and the furs beneath. 

“Nym, fuck, love, I’m going to—“ he swore. His hand flew between their bodies to grip the base of his prick. Blackwall hastily withdrew from her constricting sodden heat, spurting pearly globs of his seed across her stomach. She watched, mesmerized as her lover rode out his release with shudder until he collapsed beside her with a blissfuly weary groan. 

They laid such as that for some minutes, waiting as their awareness crawled step-by-step towards coherent thought. Nymeria hated it. Their intimate little niche yanked away to let the coldness of the world back in, to settle the burden of responsibility back upon her shoulders like a leaden cloak. She banished all thoughts of the Inquisition and Corypheus, contenting herself by focusing on his ragged breath breezing over her sweaty temple. The weight of his arm bent across his chest as his fingers ghosted over the jumping pulse in her throat.

Blackwall endeavored to sit up, pulling himself away as if he were sewn to the fur beneath them. The crunching stalks of the mattress levied complaints she held too much pride to make him stay. To order him to come back and lay t her side, to beat back the cold world for a few moments longer. The Inquisitor wanted that selfish vulnerability back. To hide in his embrace like a fortress and never come out again. To not have to be so damned stoic as her station demanded she be. 

Disobeying her silent commands, the stocky warrior retrieved something from a satchel dangling off a nail. A gold and blue silk handkerchief clutched in his hands as he stared at her, blue eyes dimming in apology. Playing the supplicant, Blackwall dropped to his knees between her legs and wiped the milky puddles of seed spattered across her belly. 

“I should not have done such a crass thing,” he apologized. “But I did not want to risk getting you with child.”

“I don’t mind.” Nymeria lazed across the furs, smiling to herself as her eyelids drooped. “The spilling all over belly part, anyway. Does that mean it’s only a legend that Grey Wardens are sterile?”

A subtle tension pulled around Blackwall’s eyes before they darted away, seeking distraction out the window beside them. “Erm, no, it is true. But you, my lady, have a way of surpassing the words ‘impossible’ and ‘never.’ I’d rather not chance on the two of us conceiving a miracle child with Corphyeus having yet to be dealt with.”

“I’ll ask Dorian to brew a fertility potion in the meantime. Just to be safe,” she said, her words lilting in drowsy afterglow. Nymeria held his hand atop her womb. “But even if we can’t, that doesn’t bother me. All that matters is we’re together now. We’ll face whatever tomorrow brings so long as we have a tomorrow to look forward to.”

He closed his eyes and drew in a shaky breath, holding it for some moments before expelling it, as if rally his composure. “Yes, of course, love.”

After disposing the cloth and snuffing the lantern, Blackwall climbed atop the straw mattress behind her, curling his burly frame around her body like a warm blanket. She couldn’t help but notice the tension in his arms or the insistent hand resting above her sternum, as if to feel every heartbeat. The same restlessness from earlier seemed to bleed back into his veins drop by drop. Perhaps he regreted this? Or he truly worried about what his Grey Warden taint meant for their future. Just because he evaded Corypheus’ false Calling, didn’t mean his true Calling would patiently wait another thirty years to start whispering in his ear. The thought wracked a shiver up Nymeria’s spine despite the warmth enclosed around her.

“Would you like a blanket?” he asked, somehow pulling her deeper into his embrace. “You’re shaking, love.”

She turned, maneuvering herself onto her back to face him. The half-moon spilled over them, soft light erasing some of the furrows etched in his brow which daylight callously revealed. Never in her life had she met a man as genuinely considerate, yet gruffly efficient in the field. The Inquisitor traced her fingers over his thick eyebrows, diverting her touch down the slightly crooked bridge of his nose.

“You’ll have to tell me about this one day,” she said with a yawn. 

“Drunken bar fights hardly craft suitable bedtime stories.” He offered her a wan smile, coiling a strand of her hair around his finger. “Go to sleep, Nym. Tomorrow I’ll answer any question your heart desires.”

“You have my heart as well, Blackwall,” she murmured and nuzzled her closer to him.

“I know, love. And you’ll always have mine beating beside yours in your chest.” He kissed her forehead and buried his nose in her hair. “I love you, Nym. More than you’ll ever fathom.”

Nymeria Trevelyan smiled herself to sleep.

 

****

 

He closes his eyes. Tries to sleep but every time he sees the mongrel’s neck twisting, its paws scrabbling against air for purchase it will never get. The high-pitched keening of an animal’s last breath reverberates in his ears. And then he imagines it’s Mornay. The noose doesn’t snap his neck. He dangles, wriggling like a worm on a hook, his face turning black, his eyes bulging bloodshot from their sockets as his strangles to an agonizing death.

The burden of knowledge. Perhaps it would have been simpler if he didn’t review Leilana’s spy reports while perusing the intel on Adamant. Then he wouldn’t have stumbled across Mornay’s execution announcement. When his awareness bled back, he’d been halfway across the yard with the paper crumpled in his pocket before he even realized he’d taken it. 

He had to do something. He couldn’t just close the door this time allow another ghost to haunt him. There were so many ghosts these days. Too many for any man to ignore.

The slow, rhythmic breathing had been his first sign, the light snoring which followed strengthened his plan as much as it rent into his resolve. Conflicting voices launched into a lively debate, their argument had begun at a whisper a week ago before raising to a bluster. Blackwall kept bargaining with the voices.

_If she wakes up when I slide my arm from under her head, I’m staying. If she wakes up when crawl off the mattress, I’m staying. If she awakens to the sound of my dressing, I’m staying._

But Andraste’s fine arse, the Inquisitor was a heavy sleeper and his selfish negotiations failed him. Blackwall stood over her, staring down at the woman who he wished he met years ago. Before this business with holes in the sky and darkspawn gods. But fate was never so kind, as he knew too well at this dismal juncture in life.

Maker, it should have been only a simple drink! No, it shouldn’t have even been that, but he’s a selfish fool, grasping at one last thread of an encounter with her like a falling man reaching for a frayed rope. Another few hours and half of Skyhold would be drowned in their cups, giving ample opportunity—and perhaps distraction—to steal away under cloak of darkness. The saddle bag lay packed, hidden behind a bale. He dithered over whether to leave the enchanted sword the Inquisitor had smithed for him. It didn’t feel right to take it, but with all matter of demons, Darkspawn, rogue Templars and other blackguards flouncing about, the roads promised treacherous for a man traveling alone on horseback. He’d send the sword back to Skyhold, he decided. Give it to one of Leilana’s informants in Val Royeaux as his final apology.

Years of being Blackwall rendered him blithely susceptible to his own lie. Deception became his armor, acquainting himself with the limit of its articulation and protection. It served him in seclusion among gruffalo herders and farm hands. But one fucking letter made him remember his suit of armor was little better than blood-splattered plates of glass. 

He was a murderer and a fraud. No virtue of joining this Inquisition could wash those inconvenient truths downstream. Sooner or later, the Wardens would question him. Maker’s balls, his heart had thundered in his throat the entire time at Adamant. Fretting, expecting that one Grey Warden to say _That man is a fraud! I served at Val Chevin and that is not Warden Constable Blackwall. Seize him!”_

And for the first time since he’d been recruited into this illustrious order of the Thedas’ most brazen and courageous, Thom Rainier knew he must leave. There was no place for him here. The soul-shattering acknowledgement of his fated course gutted him, spewing out the viscera that was Blackwall onto tired, wooden floorboards.

Still, whichever part of his demarcated being that loved her gouged into him, sinking claws past his heart and into his very soul. In the time he had extricated himself from her arms, he watched her content face pinch in distress. Her brows creased as some nightmare ravaged her previously pleasant slumber. Watching the anguish plague her, Blackwall dared to reach out to her, to stroke her cheek, wanting nothing more than to take her in his arms and tell her she wouldn’t face her enemies alone. Those urges only caused his guilt to burn colder in the icy pit of stomach. 

Lady Inquisitor Nymeria Trevelyan of Ostwick, a formidable woman whose legend would one day overshadow the despicable tale of Thom Rainier, never to intertwine with it.

One last look. One last memory of this woman who redeemed him as much as she damned him. A single memory of warmth in a bitter night before he left his note beside the Griffin he’d carved. Just another project he’d start and never finish like so many before. Finished or not, this would be his last. Rainier was many things, but never foolish enough to expect pardon from a gallows.

Wind blustered across the desolate courtyard. The moon had begun its descent a few hours ago, nearly kissing the the top of the ramparts as he walked his mount out the main portcullis.

He thanked the higher power that most of the sentries had snuck off for a nip of ale or simply didn’t recognize him, but also cursed their lazy vigilance. These were the hands he left her in and every gallop away from Skyhold trudged heavier.


End file.
